


I wanna find a home (and I wanna share it with you)

by madasthesea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Adopted Peter Parker, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Peter Parker, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fainting, Father-Son Relationship, Fever Dreams, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injured Peter Parker, Italian Tony Stark, Jealousy, Kid Peter Parker, Kidnapping, Melancholy, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Pepper Potts Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Peter calling Tony dad, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sick Peter Parker, Sleepy Peter Parker, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Survivor Guilt, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Lives, Tony Stark Whump, Tony stark is a good father, Whump, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-02-29 15:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18781330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea
Summary: A collection of my Irondad Bingo promptsChapter 9: Jealousy





	1. sleepy

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be for the fever prompt but I didn't want to do whump so we ended up with this absolute marshmallow instead. 
> 
> Title from "Hello My Old Heart" by the Oh Hellos

Peter had always been cuddly when he was sick, so Tony wasn’t really surprised when, fifteen minutes after he retired to bed, he heard his door open and stockinged feet shuffle in. He felt his blankets lift and the mattress dip as Peter laid down next to him, groaning lightly at his aching muscles.

“You really are an octopus, aren’t you?” Tony grumbled, rolling onto his side to face Peter, allowing him to scoot even closer. “A typhoid octopus—” he reached out and felt Peter’s forehead “—with a fever.”

Peter stuck out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout, half his face smushed into a pillow. “I can’t sleep,” he whined quietly. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” Tony let his hand drop from Peter’s forehead to the back of his neck, massaging gently. Peter seemed inclined to agree, sighing as he relaxed into the soft bed. He turned onto his stomach, giving Tony access to his back and shoulders, too, which made Tony snort in laughter.

“Can’t sleep, huh?” Tony asked, concern and sympathy in his voice. He hated it when Peter couldn’t sleep because it was never just for one night at a time, but weeks, until Peter was to his breaking point and Tony had to stage an intervention, pulling out all the stops to knock Peter out. Being sick didn’t make sleep easier, but it did make Peter’s patience and stamina wear out faster.

Peter opened his eyes, sensing the change in Tony’s voice. “Yeah. Everything hurts.”

“Ok, buddy. Have you taken your medicine?”

Peter nodded and Tony sighed. “Well, that’s ok,” he lied. “Didn’t you read the instructions? They say take with a full glass of water and plenty of snuggles. Come here.”

Peter huffed a weak laugh. “Never thought I’d hear you say ‘snuggles,’” he said, but he slid closer to the center of the bed, meeting Tony halfway.

Tony wasn’t sure when the feel of Peter—bony and gangly and a little too warm—pressed into his side became so familiar, but it felt like the first notes of his favorite song, the cherished scent of Pepper’s shampoo. The second they settled against each other, Tony let himself relax into this little piece of home.  

“Speak to your audience,” he murmured into Peter’s hair. “You love ‘snuggles.’ It makes you think of snakes hugging, which for some reason is incredibly amusing to you.”

Peter laughed again, sounding a little delirious. His fingers sought out Tony’s sleeve and held tight. “They don’t have arms, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. He rubbed a palm up and down Peter’s spine.

“Tell me about your trip. With MJ and Ned. Where did you guys decide to go?”

He counted Peter’s heartbeats. A little faster than Tony would like, but not concerning. He should be able to get Peter to sleep within ten minutes. He started the timer in his head.

“We were thinking Europe, but MJ mentioned doing a humanitarian trip, so now we’re leaning toward Nigeria. There’s a nice program that lets us build schools and hospitals there.”

Tony opened his eyes and looked down at Peter, fever color high on his cheeks and his hair a rat’s nest from tossing and turning and refusing to sleep in his own bed because he was sick. Peter, who was going to go to Africa and do service for his senior trip.

He was too perfect. Tony could live a hundred lifetimes being Iron Man, give every cent he’s ever made to charity, and he would still never deserve Peter Parker. Because he was doing it for redemption. And Peter did it because he could and therefore must.

“You’re too good for this world, _il mio cuore_ ,” Tony whispered.

Peter’s blush intensified and Tony could practically feel the heat radiating from his face.

“Did you just call me—”

“Where would you pick?” Tony interrupted before this conversation could get too sentimental. He was already painfully aware of his heart right now; how it stilled in his chest when he looked at Peter, how it raced, completely out of his control, at any sign of pain or sadness in Peter’s face, how it swelled with pride at everything Peter did. If he had to talk about it, he feared that it might just jump straight out of his mouth and offer itself to Peter so Tony would stop beating around the bush.

Peter hummed in confusion, a little taken aback.

“Anywhere in the world, kid, where would you pick to go? And I know you’ve never done this before in your life, but don’t worry about anyone else. Where would _you_ go?”

“Oh,” Peter said. He settled into the pillows again, his face screwed up as he thought. Tony couldn’t stop himself from brushing a lock of hair out of Peter’s eyes. “Italy, I think. May’s Italian, so I’m kind of... Italian by proximity.”

Tony grinned. “You’ll love Italy, kiddo. We can go to _Nonna’s_ hometown—”

“We?” Peter interrupted, eyes open again.

_Idiot_ , Tony cursed himself.

“Or you and May,” he quickly corrected, not looking at Peter. “I’d be happy to provide a jet for you two and hote—”

“No, no, no. Mr. Stark.” He pressed himself more firmly into Tony’s chest, but Tony still didn’t look at him. “I would love to go with you. That sounds... unbelievable. I just kind of thought this was hypothetical.”

Tony blinked, finally met Peter’s eyes again. “When have I ever been hypothetical, Parker?”

Peter grinned, muscles loosening and eyes bright with feverish affection now that he knew he didn’t upset Tony. “Never.” His eyes closed as Tony tucked strands of hair, curling with sweat, behind his ear. “Where was your grandmother from?”

For a second, Tony didn’t know what Peter was talking about. And then—

_Oh my gosh. Pull yourself together, Stark. It’s like you’re trying to be humiliated._

He’d referred to Maria as Peter’s _nonna_. His grandmother. Luckily, Peter had no way of knowing that, so Tony scrambled to act natural.

“Tuscany,” he said, calming his breathing. “Near Chianti.”

He ran his hand along Peter’s back again, bent his head low so he was murmuring in Peter’s ear. Peter instantly melted into him, his head pressed warm and heavy over Tony’s heart.

“My mother and I used to go for a month every summer. Just me and her. We would spend a week at her parents’ vineyard. The nearest town was on a hilltop, with medieval walls all around it. We’d go to church in the square, and then go to the gelateria next door. There was a well in the center of the _piazza_ and my mom always gave me a penny to throw in. I’d steal roses to give to her from one of the climbing trellises and when the gardener yelled at me I’d pretend to not speak Italian.”

Peter gave a breathy laugh. Tony paused in his story and counted Peter’s heartbeats again. Slower, calmer. They were getting there.

Tony didn’t usually talk about his childhood. He usually avoided thinking about it and how messed up it was, but those months in Italy were some of the happiest of his life because Howard hadn’t been there. After his mom had died, he hadn’t wanted to talk about the good things either. It hurt too much.

Telling Peter didn’t hurt though. Telling Peter felt natural and cathartic and tender.

“I’ll take you there,” Tony promised, and felt Peter’s smile curve against his chest. “We can go in June, when it’s not too humid. We’ll get a car and drive. The lemons will be in season, and if you roll the windows down you can smell them in the air. We can go to Siena, and bribe them to let us climb to the top of the _duomo_. You can see the whole city from up there, all the red tile roofs.”

Peter’s breathing was getting deeper. Tony lowered his voice.

“We’ll go to Florence and you can eat your weight in gelato.”

“Venice,” Peter mumbled. Tony swallowed, his heart skipping. He loved him. He loved him. He wanted to share his favorite place and his favorite memories with him, desperately wanted to make new favorite memories with Peter at his side.

“Venice,” Tony agreed after a moment. “We can be cheesy tourists and take a gondola ride. Feed the pigeons in _San Marco’s._ ”

Peter hummed in contentment, too far gone to form words.

“I know the best bakery in Naples. All the secret places in Rome. The Amalfi Coast.”

He paused again. Peter’s heartbeat was slow and even, his breaths heavy with sleep.

“Anything you want, Peter,” Tony whispered. “Absolutely anything.”


	2. Peter calling Tony 'dad'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have like seven of these prompts started cause each time I went to finish one I just started another. Which is why this took forever.

Peter wakes up to being roughly dropped on a cold, concrete floor.

He lays still, listening. There are five heartbeats in the room, one person breathing fast.

“Touch my son again and I’ll kill you.”

 _Tony_. Tony’s here and... he just called Peter his son. Which is confusing.

Someone scoffs. “You’re tied up. What can you do?”

“That’s my _son_ ,” Tony growls, voice dangerous. A shiver goes up Peter’s spine, but not out of fear. Awe, maybe. Tony is every inch the superhero Peter has always wanted to be. “Touch him again and I’ll kill you.”

Another voice chuckles, low and gravelly. There are steps, and the scent of old cigarette smoke wafting toward Peter.

There’s a brief silence, and Peter wants to open his eyes and see what’s happening but he doesn’t want to give himself away.

“Alright, Stark,” someone says. It’s the smoker, Peter can tell from his voice, and probably the leader of this little kidnapping. “We won’t hurt him. As long as you promise not to try to escape.”

Voice calm, as if negotiating a simple business transaction, Tony clarifies, “You don’t _touch_ him, and I promise nothing but good behavior. Though I don’t suppose I’ll get time off for that.”

“No,” the same man agrees, sounding eager for whatever he has in store for Tony. “You won’t.”

A key scrapes, chains clatter to the floor.

“Go get the kid,” an even crueler voice instructs.

Peter forces himself not to jump when he feels warm hands turn him over.

“Peter. Up and at ‘em, buddy,” Tony murmurs near his ear. Peter makes a bit of a show of blinking himself into consciousness, squinting around at the gathered men in alarm.

“Dad?” he asks, pitching his voice to sound scared. If they’re playing the ‘ordinary kid’ angle, Peter’s going to do his part.

Tony’s hand squeezes his shoulder once in relief at Peter following his lead.

“Wha’ happened?”

“Come on, kiddo. On your feet.” Tony hauls him up without answering, keeping an anchoring hand on Peter’s arm as they get led out of the small room.  

They jostle Tony along, but no one lays a hand on Peter, as promised. The hall they walk down is narrow, a single high window showing a glimpse of night sky.

They’re shoved into a room with a single cot, metal toilet and sink, and a bare lightbulb in the corner. It looks like a prison cell.

The door slams behind them and they’re alone. Neither speaks for a moment, looking around at their surroundings. There was one thing Peter had missed: a security camera, the red light blinking steadily at them.

Tony sends Peter a look, letting him know he saw it too.

“You ok, Pete?” he asks, and immediately the camera pivots toward them, following the direction of Tony’s voice. It had sound as well, then. Good to know. They’ll have to keep up the charade even when alone.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Peter mutters. Tony’s hand slips up to Peter’s neck, gently squeezing the back. Then he walks over to the cot and sits down, leaning against the wall. He sends a sideways glance at the camera, then Peter, then pats the spot next to him. Peter sits as well, pulling his knees up to his chest. Tony slings an arm over his shoulders, gathering Peter into his side.

“That camera has night vision,” he observes mildly. “You can tell by the lens color.”

Peter hums. They sit for a few minutes in silence, Peter’s head on Tony’s shoulder as he contemplates their situation, before Tony stands again, walking to the other side of the cell.

“It’s probably late,” he says, and the camera pans over to him. Peter raises an eyebrow and gets a small smile in return. _Test the mic_ , Tony is telling him without words.

“We should probably get some sleep,” Peter replies, quieter. The camera turns to him.

“There’s only one bed.” Even lower. The camera still turns.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Peter offers, whispering. Nothing.

“You’re going to have to speak up, Pete,” Tony says, winking. They found the threshold for the microphone. As long as their conversation is quieter than a whisper, they can talk normally, without hiding their plans and without the complication of pretending to be father and son.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Peter says again, standing. It is late, and they do need sleep for whatever is going to happen tomorrow.

“Don’t pretend you’re too old to share a bed with your dad,” Tony teases. “I remember what happened when we watched _Woman in Black_ on Halloween.”

Peter scoffs. Falling asleep in Tony’s room that night had been unintentional, thank you very much. Rolling his eyes, Peter steps back over to the narrow cot.

“You take by the wall.”

Peter wrinkles his nose, but does as he’s told. He knows Tony wants to be between him and the door, should someone come in while they’re sleeping.

The bunk is so narrow they can’t lay on their backs at the same time, so Peter turns onto his side and faces Tony.

With the light off, it’s pitch black. Peter’s heightened eyesight can barely make out the shape of Tony’s face, turned towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers after a moment. “They only grabbed you cause you were with me.”

“I don’t care,” Peter responds, barely breathing the words. “I only care that they’re going to _torture you_ , Tony. And I’m just supposed to sit here and play the scared kid?”

“If I break my side of the deal, they’ll torture you, too. I can’t live with that.”

The cot squeaks as Tony shifts, his hand tracing Peter’s throat in the darkness until he finds his cheek.

“And I can?”

“You’ll have to.”

“No,” Peter hisses. “Screw that.”

“Kid, if they find out I tried to trick them, they will kill you. Probably slowly and definitely in front of me.” Tony’s voice shakes.

Peter squeezes his eyes closed, then turns his back to Tony. He’s angry. Really angry. And scared.

“Peter,” Tony breathes. He puts the hand Peter had shaken off onto his back, rubbing his thumb against Peter’s shoulder blade.

“How’d you even know that would work?” Peter asks the wall.

“The leader had a picture of a little boy as his phone background,” Tony explains. “I could tell... he knows what a father would do to protect his child.”

There’s a lump in Peter’s throat. He’s been trying to avoid thinking too much about the implications of acting like Tony’s son. About Tony _claiming_ him as his son.

 _What a father would do to protect his child._ What Tony would do— _did—_ for him.

Swallowing down the tears, Peter turns over again and pulls himself closer to Tony, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder.

Tony wraps his arms around Peter, one hand cradling Peter’s head. When he sighs, it ruffles Peter’s hair.

“I’ll be ok as long as you’re ok,” Tony whispers.

 

They come for Tony early the next morning, according to Peter’s probably-not-very-accurate internal clock. Peter’s spider sense wakes him up and he wakes Tony with a quick nudge before the door flies open.

Tony stands, cooperating.

“Where are you taking him?” Peter asks. One of the men looks down at him and laughs. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry, little Stark. He’ll get the best care available,” another man jeers, shoving Tony between the shoulder blades.

“Dad!” Peter shouts, standing, his hands balled into fists. Tony looks over his shoulder and meets his eye.

“It’s ok, Petey. I’ll see you soon, ok?”

And then they’re gone, leaving Peter in silence, his heartbeat ringing in his ears.

That night, when they bring Tony back, after Peter had spent hours upon hours pacing the cell—measuring it, looking for weaknesses, and alternating between trying desperately to hear _anything_ from outside and praying he didn’t—Peter carefully walks him to the cot and sits him down. He’s bloody and bruised, but he’s conscious and moving and talking and that’s more than Peter had hoped for.

“Dad,” Peter says, kneeling in front of him. It’s surprisingly easy, having that word come out of his mouth instead of ‘Mr. Stark.’

Tony offers him a tired smile, but it makes his split lip start bleeding again and he stops. “Hey, Pete. Have fun while I was gone?”

Peter growls, shaking his head, and concentrates on feeding Tony the half of the dinner he’d saved—canned soup and a rather stale roll.

That night, when they lay down to go to sleep, Peter is once again next to the wall.

“Do you have a plan on how to get us out of here? I measured the cell and based on the layout of the hallway that I remember—” Peter starts rambling in a breathy whisper.

“Pete,” Tony interrupts. He turns onto his side and winces slightly. “We just have to wait it out.”

“Why? To protect me?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Tony breathes, tugging Peter closer. He looks like he wants to sleep rather than argue, but this is the only time they can really talk and Peter has a whole day’s worth of words built up in his head.

“It is a bad thing if protecting me is hurting you.”

“We’re not doing this again, Peter,” Tony sighs. His voice is a little above a whisper, and the camera whirs as it turns toward them.

“ _Dad_ ,” Peter grits out.

Tony cuts him off by twisting Peter’s chin towards him and kissing his cheek.

“Go to sleep.”

Peter, very aware of the camera trained on them and Tony’s chest pressing against his back with each breath, lays awake for a long time.

 

They take Tony again. Peter yells and curses and Tony just smiles at him and says with false confidence, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be fine.”

Again, Peter is left with nothing to do, nothing to think about except half-formed plans that Tony won’t try anyway and the way Tony had called him baby.

When they bring him back, Tony crumples to his knees and looks at Peter through two black eyes. His nose has been at least dislocated, if not broken, and dried blood coats his goatee.

Peter helps him to his feet and cleans him off with the hem of his shirt and lays him down. Then he crawls over him so he’s next to the wall like Tony insists on.

There’s quiet for a long time. He thinks Tony might have fallen asleep when the man turns his head and whispers into his ear.

“I gave you the harder part, huh? Easier to be tortured.”

Peter sighs. “Maybe. But being tortured _and_ watching you be tortured would be worse.”

“Is that gratitude I hear?” Tony wheezes, his lungs crackling.

Peter flinches. “Barely. Waning every minute.”

Tony chuckles. He’s laying flat on his back to help keep pressure of his ribs, so Peter curls into him.

He’s almost asleep when Tony speaks again.

“I knew we could pull it off,” he murmurs. “Playing father and son. No one would even question.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

Starvation and dehydration make Peter’s spider sense slower. They don’t wake up the next morning until someone is dragging Tony by the ankle off the cot.

It takes Peter a second to remember himself and shout “Dad!” instead of Tony.

He jumps up as fast as he can and someone grabs his arm, twisting it behind him.

Tony’s still trying to get to his feet, hands fisting cruelly in his shirt, his hair.

“Don’t you—” Tony gasps, then cuts off as someone kicks his knee when he tries to stand.

“Dad!”

In a flash, Tony grabs someone’s ankle, bringing him crashing to the ground, then he’s on his feet, swaying only slightly as he grabs the other man in a choke hold.

“I said don’t touch him,” Tony snarls.

There’s a beat, Tony staring hard at the man holding Peter, while Peter pants, his adrenaline kicking up.

Peter’s arm is let go and Tony immediately releases his hostage, holding up his hands to show that he’s sticking to his bargain.

“You good, Pete?” Tony asks tersely.

“I-I’m fine,” he assures Tony.

Then he’s being dragged away. To another day of torture that Tony won’t even hint at, even when Peter asks.

“Stop!” Peter screams. “Dad! Don’t hurt him!”

“Peter,” Tony calls, though his teeth are gritted in pain. “It’s ok.”

“No!” Peter follows him to the doorway, though one of the men stays behind and makes sure he doesn’t leave.

“I love you, Pete,” Tony says. And then he’s gone.

 

Peter paces. And paces and paces and paces. And eyes the pipes lining the cement ceiling above him.

When they bring Tony back, he isn’t walking. Peter catches him on his knees.

“Dad? Dad, come on, look at me.”

Peter ducks his head and presses his cheek to Tony’s forehead. He’s clammy and shaking.

“Dad.”  

“Peter,” Tony pants. Then he goes limp.

It takes Peter a long time to drag Tony over to the cot. He probably makes himself seem even weaker than a normal teenage boy, but he’d rather that than seem too strong.

He levers Tony onto the bed carefully, slowly. Then he gently pushes him over toward the wall and lays down next to him, between Tony and the door.

The things they say at night, whispered between them, are just for them. Not a pretense, not for their captors, just them.

“Dad,” Peter breathes.

 

The next morning, when they come to take Tony, Peter’s waiting for them.


	3. Presumed Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did any of you ever watch Teen Wolf? There's a wonderful episode (truly one of my faves) in which Scott, despite having magical werewolf healing abilities, can't heal because he's so guilty for letting on of his pack die. Some quality whump right there.
> 
> TW for mentions of drowning

“Why isn’t he healing?”

May’s voice floated towards him, the words hushed and frantic. It’d been three days and infection had started to take hold of the ragged wounds marring Peter’s skin, his broken arm hot and swollen. Normally his body took care of infections before they even started, healed bones before they could be set.

“I think it’s psychosomatic.”

“He’s in so much turmoil emotionally, he can’t heal physically.”

The conversation was two hallways away, but the whole building was quiet—the whole _world_ was quiet—and he could hear without straining.

“He thinks it’s his fault.”

“Tony wouldn’t want—”

Peter tuned out of the conversation, let everything blur around him as he turned onto his side. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter what Tony would have wanted. He was dead.

And it was Peter’s fault.

 

“Time for lunch, baby,” May announced in a sing-song voice as she pushed the door open with her hip. Peter curled up tighter into his ball.

“No.”

“Peter, you have to eat.” She fussed with his bedside table, arranging the food. “You need nutrients to heal.”

“I don’t want it,” he said, his voice hoarse.

May stopped, sighed heavily. Then she say on the edge of Peter’s bed and pushed back his sweaty bangs. Her frown increased as she felt his temperature.

“Stop doing this,” she pleaded. “I know you’re hurting. I know. But you can’t just shut down. Tony wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

Peter turned away from her touch.

“Good thing he isn’t here then, isn’t it?” He snapped. His skin was freezing cold but his blood burned, hot and painful, through every inch of him. He couldn’t breathe passed the wildfire ache inside his chest.

“Peter,” May gasped.

“Leave me alone.”

Reluctantly, she left. Peter closed his eyes, tears mingling with sweat as it dripped down his face.

 

They were waiting to have the funeral until Tony’s body could be found. Rhodey had gone to look for it, along with Steve and Thor.

No one told Peter about it, but he could hear them as they muttered in the waiting room. No one but May and Happy came to visit him and he didn’t blame them. He’d failed to save their friend. He wouldn’t want to see him either.

 

With the infection came fever. Nurses bustled in and out of his room with cold compresses and medication, but they seemed hazy and far off. May was the only clear thing, sitting at his side and dabbing sweat from his forehead.

Peter lay, wracked with tremors and memories. He could see Tony, falling and falling, and his webs, too slow, too short, not enough.

He’d yelled at May, he remembered suddenly, watching her through heavy eyelids.

“Sorry,” he slurred.

“Peter?”

“Sorry.”

He hadn’t caught Tony, but the river had, swallowed him whole and dragged him away. Peter had spent nearly an hour trying to find him before the other Avengers had arrived and taken over.

“Sorry,” he hiccupped.

The air felt thick and elusive, and he wondered if that was how Tony felt as he fell. As he drowned.

“Sorry, sorry. So sorry,” Peter said, and suddenly he was sobbing, retching the words. Bile and apologies spilled from his mouth, and maybe part of his heart, too, the part that had chipped off and been rattling around inside him since Tony died, bruising him from the inside out.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he gasped as cool hands levered him back into the bed, as the lights started fading out above him.

 

His muscles ached as he woke. He was still so cold, his teeth were chattering.

Something warm was tucked around him, gentle and comforting. Peter furrowed his eyebrows, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Oh, kiddo,” a voice sighed in the darkness.

A hand, cool against his skin, traced his jaw, his cheekbone. Another carefully tugged back some bandages as if examining his injuries, angry and infected as they were.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t deserve...” The words were elusive, drifting away from him just like Tony had.

“I find that hard to believe,” the tone was affectionate and Peter shifted towards it like it was a soft touch. “What don’t you deserve, buddy?”

“To get better.” His voice broke.

“Peter.”

“Tony,” Peter whispered.

“Pete?”

“Tony. Tony.” He didn’t want to open his eyes and see the proof that this was a delusion, that he was imagining this.

The hand moved to his forehead, rubbing soothing circles against his temple.

“Tony,” Peter begged. “Please come back. Please don’t leave me.”

“Shh. Shh, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please, please. Come back.”

The Tony of his fever dream held him while he cried himself back to sleep, still pleading for Tony—the real Tony, wherever he was—to not be dead.

 

There was a hand in his when he woke up. And another combing through his hair.

Cracking his eyes open, Peter saw May on one side of him, holding his hand and absently scrolling through her phone. Brow creasing in confusion, Peter managed to turn his stiff neck enough to see that sitting on the other side of him, looking out the window and running his fingers through Peter’s hair, was Tony.

The heart monitor’s beeping increased and May and Tony both snapped their attention to him.

“Wha-“ Peter croaked, staring at Tony, cataloguing every detail. He had stitches in his forehead, half his face was mottled bruises, and he was smiling down at Peter with an expression of apologetic concern.

“Hey, Pete,” he said softly.

“You— you’re— I don’t— May?” Peter stammered, looking over at her, his eyes blurry with tears.

“They found him yesterday, baby,” she told Peter, squeezing his hand and beaming at him. “He’s been here all night, to Dr. Cho’s consternation.”

Peter shook his head, trying to organize his thoughts.

“I thought... I _looked_ for you,” Peter whispered, turning back to Tony.

Tony’s smile fell, his eyes suddenly sad. He stood and perched on the edge of Peter’s bed, cupping his jaw.

“They told me, buddy. I am so, _so_ sorry. I tried to get home as fast as I could, I swear.”

Peter grabbed Tony’s hoodie in his good hand, holding tight.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped out. “I tried to catch you, but you were too far, my webs—I wasn’t fast enough, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Peter. It wasn’t your fault.” Tony ducked his head, making sure he had Peter’s full attention. “ _It wasn’t your fault_.”

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. Tony hurriedly pulled Peter into a hug, pressing him tight to his chest.

“And I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about not deserving to heal, alright? I expect those wounds gone by tomorrow,” Tony growled into his ear.

Peter sniffed and smiled into Tony’s shoulder. “I’ll get right on that.”


	4. Trope: Hurt/Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Endgame but Tony lives.

“Come sit with me, kid,” Tony said softly right before Peter was about to excuse himself to bed. Pepper was tucking Morgan in—quite a bit past her bedtime, but the excitement of the day seemed to excuse that—and Peter had figured Tony would want to go to sleep, too.

“Ok,” Peter agreed, a little wary. He’d expected Tony to have a talk with him ever since he came back to life four days ago, but thinking about what it might be about made his stomach twist in knots and his mouth go dry.

Tony stepped out onto the porch and Peter followed, closing the door quietly behind him. It was a gibbous moon tonight and the lake was lit up in silver and gold reflected from the cabin windows. Insects were chirping and buzzing in the early summer warmth.

It would be a perfect night if it weren’t for Peter’s racing heart and sweaty palms.

Tony settled onto the padded bench, sideways to look out at the little wooden dock, then patted the spot next to him. Peter perched on the edge of the seat, but Tony almost immediately wrapped an arm around his stomach, pulling him back to lean against Tony’s chest. His other arm came up, encircling Peter, and Peter hesitantly adjusted until he was comfortable, his head resting against Tony’s collarbone.

There was silence for a long minute, just the bugs and Tony’s heartbeat, solid and steady against Peter’s back.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” Peter asked, nearly whispering.

“Is there something you want to talk about?” Tony’s tone was gentle and warm. It always was, now. He’d lost the edge, the biting hint of sarcasm that he’d had before Thanos. Peter wondered if it was because of Morgan or if he was too tired to fight.

Peter swallowed. There were things he knew he _needed_ to talk about, at some point. Like what he was supposed to do now, what had happened in those five years. But he didn’t want to talk about any of it. Not now.

He shook his head. Tony hummed and it reverberated in Peter’s chest.

“Ok, then.”

Silence fell again. Peter looked out at the lake and so did Tony. Every few minutes, Tony would hug Peter a little closer or duck his head and press his cheek to Peter’s hair.

It seemed that Tony really had just wanted to sit with Peter. Had just wanted to hold him for a while.

It was so different from the Tony he’d known, who had occasionally and with no small amount of feigned complaining given Peter a brief hug or pat on the back. Who would hold his hand when he was hurt but only if Peter was drugged up enough Tony thought he wouldn’t remember. Who had kissed Peter’s forehead once and then looked like his life had flashed before his eyes.

Feeling inexplicable tears in his eyes, Peter spoke.

“We never did this before.”

Tony caught his breath. Then he unwound his arms from around Peter, straightening.

“I’m sorry, I was... I guess I’m used to Morgan,” Tony said, his voice barely masking his hurt.

Peter caught Tony’s wrists and pulled them back to where they were.

“That’s not what I meant,” he whispered.

Tony sighed behind him, readjusting Peter so they were even closer, his hand pressed over Peter’s heart. He dropped his forehead onto Peter’s shoulder, his breath sticky warm through his t-shirt.

“I should have held you more,” Tony whispered. Peter closed his eyes.

“After Morgan was born, I would just spend... hours holding her, watching her sleep and breathe. And I realized that I should have done that with you, should have just reveled in the fact that you were warm and alive and _there_ when I had the chance.”

Peter tried to think of something to say to that, but Tony kept talking.

“Your first birthday after, I was out of my mind with grief. I just walked around Manhattan all day, barely even paying enough attention to not get hit by a car. People might have tried to talk to me but I didn’t hear it. Until this old man put a hand on my shoulder and asked if I was alright.” Tony’s voice broke and he took a steadying breath.

“When I told him it was my son’s birthday—” Peter wondered if Tony could feel his heart jump under his palm “—he put his arm around me and steered me into a bakery. He bought me a cupcake,” Tony snorted. “Someone bought me, Tony Stark, a cupcake. We didn’t have any candles so we stuck a lit match in it for me to blow out.”

“What’d you wish for?” Peter asked before he could stop himself. Tony’s hand clenched around Peter’s t-shirt, crumpling it into a fist over Peter’s heart.

“I wished to trade places with you,” Tony whispered after a long moment. “I wished you had lived and I had died.”

Peter drew in a sharp breath, trying to sit up and turn to look at Tony, but Tony held him still. “Tony,” he reprimanded.

“Pepper was four months pregnant and I didn’t care,” Tony confessed. “If I could have I would have taken your place.”

“Tony,” Peter said again. He couldn’t see the lake through his tears anymore, just silver light and Tony’s knee against his leg.

“Peter,” Tony said. His voice broke and Peter could feel the sob wrack his chest. He dropped his head again, burying his face against Peter’s shoulder. “I would have mourned you every minute for the rest of my life and it still wouldn’t have been enough. The world should have stopped spinning when you died. But it didn’t. And I had to...”

“You had to keep living,” Peter soothed. He pressed his cheek against Tony’s head, hugged the arms hugging him. “I would have wanted you to keep living.”

“Morgan saved me,” Tony admitted, almost like he felt guilty. Like nothing should have stopped him from grieving. “Most of me, at least. But there was always this part of me, this little thought in the back of my mind that I shouldn’t be happy and I _was_ happy, but...”

Peter’s t-shirt was damp where Tony rested his head.

“Living without you was like missing a lung. You can never quite catch your breath.”

Tony sat up, raising a hand and turning Peter’s chin until they were looking at each other. Tears dripped down Tony’s face unheeded, but he wiped Peter’s away.

“When I saw you again on that battlefield, I took my first full breath in five years.”

Sniffling, Peter twisted around and wrapped his arms around Tony, crawling half into his lap to hug him as tightly as possible.

Tony kissed his cheek, then muttered, “I missed you more than you could ever know, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter hiccupped.

“Oh, buddy. I don’t want you to apologize. I just want you to be here.”

“I will be,” Peter promised, nodding against Tony’s throat. “I will.”


	5. Platonic soulmates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this soulmate AU might be a bit confusing. Quick run down: you get your soulmark the first time you touch your soulmate. The mark is your soulmate's name written in their handwriting in a color that reflects them. If they die, it goes white. If your soulmate touches your soulmark, you get a little happy feeling or something like that.
> 
> Informally dedicated to losingmymindtonight, for whom I've been wanting to write a soulmate AU for a long time.

Tony sighs heavily, absently scratching at his wrist. The nanotech is fighting him tonight—everything he tries ending in another failure. He should probably just call it quits and go to bed, really. Pepper’s almost certainly already asleep, having long since given up on him.

Tony scratches his wrist again. Sleep doesn’t sound so bad, actually. Better than the frustration he’s currently experiencing.

Running his fingers through his hair, Tony reaches out to the holo-table, ready to turn it off. Out of habit, he glances at his hand.

The name wrapping around his wrist in royal blue ink had been jarring for the first few months. He would catch it out of the corner of his eye and flinch or forget it was there. Now it’s comforting, though, familiar. Just like the kid that it designated as his soulmate.

In the dim light, it takes a second to register that the color isn’t as strong as it should be, not as bright and solid.

Tony’s stomach drops and then he’s scrambling through the lab, nearly tripping on his stool as he flings himself toward the door.

“FRIDAY, call Peter, push it through. Give me a suit, _now,”_ he gasps. Now, an hour ago, _yesterday_. How long had he sat there fruitlessly staring at nanobots while Peter had been...?

“Call connected,” FRIDAY announces just as one of the Iron Man suits closes around Tony. He hopes it’s his fastest one.

“Peter?” Tony snaps.

Silence. Tony strains his ears.

“FRI?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“The call is connected, boss.”.

“Peter, buddy, please.” Peter doesn’t answer, and, worse, Tony can’t even hear his breathing.

He can’t see the mark on his wrist while he’s in the suit, but he can feel it, itching and burning and demanding attention.

“What are his vitals?” Tony whispers, zooming over the New York skyline toward the blinking red dot of Peter’s tracker.

“His AI is malfunctioning, I can only get a heartrate. Forty-two beats per minute and slowing.”

So he is alive. Alive and bleeding out, probably in some dingy alley: The life leaching from him just like the color leaching from Tony’s soulmark.

When your soulmate dies the mark goes white. Like a scar. Never to recover.

“Full power to thrusters,” Tony chokes out. “And prep the Medbay or, or an ambulance, or... something. Anything.”

He’s closing in fast. He doesn’t bother slowing down, just crash lands, skidding into a dumpster and sending rats skittering. This is where his kid is, injured and unconscious and _dying_.

Tony claws at the suit until it opens, falling out gracelessly. He scrambles to the side of the prone figure, ignoring the sticky pool of hot liquid he kneels in. With shaking hands, Tony grasps Peter’s face, turning it toward him. In the dim lamplight, barely reaching the dark recesses of the alley Tony can see the blue around his wrist fading, practically flickering like a weak heartbeat. Like Peter’s heartbeat.

Peter doesn’t even groan, his eyelids don’t even flutter.

“Ambulance, FRIDAY.” The kid wouldn’t survive the flight back to the tower Medbay. He might not even survive the wait for the ambulance.

Tony’s heart is imploding. His vision is fading in and out. He can’t... he _can’t_...

By sheer instinct from years of running around with the Avengers, Tony finds his hands applying pressure to the gaping wound in Peter’s thigh. It’s deep and wide, but he thinks that by some miracle the femoral artery must have stayed intact, simply by virtue of the fact that Peter isn’t dead yet.

“Peter,” Tony says loudly, putting his entire body weight on the wound. He doesn’t have a belt on or he would do a tourniquet, and he won’t leave Peter long enough to find a suitable replacement.

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony practically shouts. He presses down hard, almost purposefully digging into the wound just to get some reaction. Finally, finally, Peter whines in the back of his throat, his eyebrows beetling.

“Kid? Kid, you with me?” Peter doesn’t answer, but his face stays creased in pain. As much as Tony hates it, it’s better than the pale lifelessness of before.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Pete, but you are _not allowed to die_. Do you understand? You can’t do that to me. You can’t.”

A siren pierces the quiet and tears of relief spring to Tony’s eyes.

“Ok, kiddo, just a little longer,” he murmurs. “Please, buddy, hold on for me.”

The medics arrived in a blur of red lights and shouted questions. They load Peter into the ambulance and Tony scrambles in with him. He sits at Peter’s feet, because that’s the only place an EMT doesn’t need to be. Aching to touch him, to feel that Peter actually is there, getting the help he so desperately needs, Tony reaches out his hand and wraps it around Peter’s ankle.

His soulmark is hard to see through the blood coating him nearly up to his elbows.

In the back of his mind, Tony remembers reading somewhere that the only thing worse than losing your child was losing your soulmate.

How can Tony survive losing both?

 

Tony sits with Pepper in the waiting room and watches his mark like it was the only thing in the world that matters. Maybe it is.

He cleaned himself up once he got to the hospital and had been forced away from Peter, but the knees of his jeans are stained rust brown and there are streaks of blood on his t-shirt. Pepper had blanched when she’s seen him, but Tony hadn’t managed to force out any words of comfort.

May bursts into the waiting room eventually, looking frantic. Pepper goes to talk with her. Tony’s sitting with his head in his hands, but when they both come over, May reaches out and tugs his right hand into hers. Tony squeezes his eyes shut. She isn’t just offering comfort, she’s checking his mark. It’s the only source of news they’ll have until Peter’s surgery is done.

After a long moment, Tony looks up and meets May’s gaze. Her eyes are red, but she looks stalwartly back at him. On her neck, just above her collarbone, is her own soulmark, _Benjamin Parker_ written in a cramped, messy hand. The letters are white now, like a scar. Like spider webs.

Tony decides then and there that he would rather cut his own hand off than have to face the reminder of losing the most important person in his life every single day.

For so long, Tony had thought he didn’t have a soulmate. If it wasn’t Pepper—or, heck, even Rhodey—it wasn’t anyone. And then the Accords fiasco had happened and he’d found himself sitting in a teenager’s room, clapping him on the shoulder and asking if he’d ever been to Germany.

Soulmarks appeared the first time you touched each other. Tony had felt the burning under the skin of his wrist and done his best to ignore it, grateful his jacket sleeve covered the skin. As soon as he’d left, however, he’d yanked up the fabric to see _Peter Parker_ curving around his wrist like a bracelet in childish handwriting.

He didn’t tell anyone for months. In fact, he did his best to pretend it hadn’t happened. How do you casually say, “Hey, I met my soulmate that I didn’t think I had and, by the way, it’s a fourteen-year-old boy that I made fight Captain America?”

Pepper had been the first person to find out, after they got back together. Tony had tried to brush it off, but she had taken his face in her hands and looked at him for a long time before saying, “ _I don’t think the universe gets these kinds of things wrong, Tony.”_

He’d disagreed, then. In fact, it had taken Peter almost dying (again) for him to wake up. He’d been standing in sickened horror as medics had cut away the Spider-Man suit so they could stitch up a gushing knife wound. And there on his chest, in the exact same place the arc reactor scar was on Tony, was _Anthony Stark_ in blazing red.

It’d been a lot harder to deny after that. He’d sat Peter down and had a very short, awkward, and probably insufficient talk with him about it and somewhere between then and now, Tony realized that the universe had known exactly what it was doing when it decided that Peter Parker and Tony Stark were meant for each other.

Peter is... Peter is everything. He’s his lab partner, his best friend, his hero, his son all in one. He makes Tony more himself than he had ever been, than he had known how to be. He learned that he liked waking up early to dumb texts about people on the subway, he learned he preferred home cooked meals to ordering out, he learned that he liked to teach. He learned a new definition for ‘home,’ and it’s almost entirely centered on Peter’s laugh and the way his eyes look in late afternoon sunlight.

What he wouldn’t give to be there right now, he thinks. If he could click his heels three times and go home, he would be curled up with Peter’s head on his shoulder and Pepper’s feet in his lap and a single blanket draped over all three of them.

As it is, all he can do is stare at his wrist and pray for that familiar royal blue, that _beautiful_ blue, to grow stronger.

It gets paler instead. The blue creeps away from the edges, fading and fading until it is suddenly, brutally gone.

May’s hand is crushingly tight around his.

“No,” Tony breathes, and it’s the only thing he can do, the only word he can think. _No. No, no, no nononono._

It hurts. It aches all the way down to his bones and the stabbing, burning pain emanating from his wrist straight to his heart is so sharp Tony cries out.

The blue jolts back and disappears, leaving nothing but thin, gossamer script. It looks so much like spider webs Tony would laugh if he could manage it around the piercing, ripping agony.

He has never thought too much about soulmates, but now he wonders how literal that word is. Are they one spirit in two bodies? Is Tony’s soul, right now, being shredded, torn asunder? It feels like it.

The words light up blue again, flicker, and die.  

Tony’s going to vomit.

They’re shocking his kid. His Peter. Trying to restart his heart. Trying to bring him back to life.

The blue fizzes back into existence and this time, _this time_ , it stays that way.

May sobs in relief next to him, unclenching her fingers from around Tony’s so she can lift it to her face and cry.

Pepper, kneeling next to him unnoticed for the last two minutes, yanks Tony up and guides him to a garbage can just in time for Tony to make good on his promise and cough up bile.

A nurse comes and checks on him after that, but Tony ignores her, barely registering her murmur of, “His soulmate? Oh, that can cause very visceral reactions,” as if there was something quantifiable, something _normal_ about having your world balanced on the precipice of complete and utter destruction.

 

It takes them four hours to finish Peter’s surgery, another hour before he’s in a room. They almost stop Tony from going in, spouting that “family only” line Tony has heard so many times, but Tony’s at the end of his rope, so he just shoves his wrist in the RN’s face, who nods and bashfully steps aside.

Tony collapses in the chair by Peter’s bed, feeling like he’d just run up Mount Everest. He reaches up and takes Peter’s hand. The name around his wrist is a dark, stunning blue. For the first time all night, Tony can breathe.

 

When Peter wakes up, Tony’s at his side.

“Hey, kiddo,” Tony whispers as Peter scrunches his eyes closed, his nose wrinkling up.

“Tony,” Peter slurs, turning his head toward the sound.

“Right here.” He stands and puts his hand on the center of Peter’s chest, right over his soulmark.   

Peter hums, smiling dopily, his eyes still closed. “’Is you.”

Peter’s hand comes up and wraps around Tony’s wrist, his fingers covering his own name on Tony’s skin. As always, a small rush of warmth accompanies the touch.

Tony laughs lightly. “You could see that if you opened your eyes, buddy.”

Peter makes an unhappy noise, but slowly opens his eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

Tony snorts. “Hey, kid. Good to see those eyes open.”

Peter grimaces. He looks around the room, frowning.

“How’d you know?” He asks suddenly, sounding slightly more lucid. “I... the suit was damaged. I passed out before I could call.”

Sighing, Tony sits on the edge of Peter’s bed. He gently adjusts Peter’s grip on his arm so that his mark is showing.

“Luckily, I have a very reliable alarm bell, right here.”

“Oh.” Peter runs his thumb over name again. “It was that bad?”

Tony’s stomach clenches, remember the feeling of desolation as he’d sat in the waiting room, watching as Peter flatlined.

“It was pretty bad,” Tony agrees. “In fact, I uh, had to blow our cover a bit. They wouldn’t let me in until I showed them my wrist.”

It is, technically, a secret. If Tony’s going out, he always wears a watch or suit jacket to cover the mark, knowing a single paparazzi shot is all it would take to change Peter’s life forever.

Peter bites his lip. “Think it’ll be a problem?” he asks, his voice small.

“Nah,” Tony says, leaning forward so he can brush Peter’s hair off his forehead. “Plenty of parents have their kid as their soulmate.”

Peter smiles, that smile that means home to Tony more than any building or city. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing new.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now imagine this AU with canon IW and Endgame and cry with me.


	6. Reuniting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the follow-up to my fic "Soon or Never," and is part of my "what you were then I am today" series. But only sort of. It's confusing. I'm sorry.
> 
> Also forget everything you know about Endgame, this ignores all of it. Carry on.

“Come on, Mags,” Tony calls, tugging on his coat.

She trots over, ready and waiting. This is their routine now. Tony calls her over and walks her, then they have dinner, Maggie sitting next to Tony’s chair at the table, and then at night she curls up at the foot of his bed.

The air is chilly, the dirt below her paws squishy and pungent from the rain that afternoon. The lake is still and Tony takes a deep breath as they start on their familiar path.

It’s quiet. Not just the evening, the animals having retreated to their homes to avoid the wet, but life. Life without Peter.

When they reach the headstone under the tree, Maggie brushes her nose against the cold granite, disturbing the small leaves clinging to it. She lays at the base of it and sighs. Tony echoes the sound as he settles on the wooden bench. He leans his knees on his elbows and watches her, his eyes dark and distant.

Tony breaks the routine and the quiet.

“I don’t know how to live without him.”

Maggie doesn’t know either. They are living with his ghost, both of them. Every room is haunted. Tony still steps around the kitchen counter as if to avoid running into Peter making his toast. Maggie waits at the door for him. Their entire life now is dedicated to his memory.

After a long time, Tony stands. He presses a kiss to his fingertips and brushes them across the name on the stone. They go back home.

 

Tony hadn’t really been her man before, just like she hadn’t really been Tony’s dog. They’d both been Peter’s. But now, with no one else, they are each others. It’s what Peter would have wanted, anyway.

She sleeps on the floor outside his lab while he works. She’s always done this. She just used to wait for both of them.

Tony nearly trips over her one night. His eyes are frantic, his breath fast. He smells acrid like adrenaline. Maggie is up instantly, her ears pulled back against her head. Tony looks at her for a second and then sprints up the stairs, Maggie following right behind, confused and alarmed.

When Tony goes to leave, she goes to follow.

“Stay, girl,” he says, then disappears.

 

When he comes back, there are people with him. Half excited, half bitter, they are all loud and chaotic, and the second Maggie sees them she places herself at Tony’s feet and growls, hackles raised.

One man looks down at her, a sad smile on his face. “You must be Maggie,” he says. She growls again.

 

The people stay, for a long time. Tony is busy now, almost energetic. Maggie is confused. She doesn’t see him as much anymore. He misses their walk, sometimes.

 

One day, Tony goes down the hall to Peter’s room. Maggie follows, uncertain. It’s been a while since they’d been in there. The last time had been Peter’s birthday, when they’d both slept in his bed. The sheets had already smelled like dust and disuse, rather than Peter.

Maggie sneezes when the door opens. Dust is on everything, swirling in the air.

Tony exhales heavily, holding onto the doorframe. Then he steps forward and begins peeling Peter’s covers off his bed.

Maggie growls, jumping onto the mattress and stopping Tony. Tony looks up at her and smiles. Maggie stops growling. It’s been a long time since she’s seen that smile.

“I’m not letting my kid sleep on dusty sheets, Mags,” he says. “We’ve got to get this place cleaned up.”  

She doesn’t understand.

 

Tony kneels down next to her one day. The Others are scrambling around him, serious and quiet. Maggie looks at them, looks at Tony. At her owner. Her man. The only person she has left.

“I have to go,” he says.

“I’ll be back soon.”

 _Soon_.

Just like Peter.

Maggie hates that word.

She growls, low in her throat, her hackles raised.

“It’s ok,” Tony promises, stroking her fur. “It’s ok.”

He stands. He’s _leaving_.

Maggie barks. Everyone ignores her. She barks again and again, racing after them, nipping at heels and fingers, howling, snarling, _begging_. Tony is leaving, he’s leaving her, and he isn’t going to come back, just like Peter didn’t.

She’s going to be left alone, curled on the foot of Tony’s bed trying to find his scent under the dust.

The door closes, the house is empty. Maggie, shivering and aching, lays at the threshold and whines.

 

That huge black bird descends onto the grass again.

Maggie pads slowly out the door, her ears back. She settles down on her haunches and watches, her fur standing on end.

The door opens. She recognizes some of the people that walk out, but doesn’t go out to greet them. There are more than there were. She doesn’t care. She just wants Tony back. She lays her head on her paws.

Tony appears and Maggie shoots to her feet, loping forward. He looks over his shoulder and pauses for a second, as if waiting for something. Maggie doesn’t really pay attention, simply eager to be reunited with her owner.

Someone comes and stands next to Tony, so close their shoulders bump. Maggie looks up and stops.

It’s Peter. Or, it looks like Peter. Exactly as she remembers him, with his hair curling around his ears and a small smile curving up one half of his face.

But it can’t be Peter, because Tony had said Peter was dead, that he wasn’t coming home. And Tony wouldn’t lie to her.

Tony and the person walk forward and Maggie anxiously steps backward, growls tearing from her throat as they approach. She doesn’t trust this person, she doesn’t want Tony next to them. She’s about to charge forward, teeth and claws bared, when the wind shifts.

And she catches the stranger’s scent.

 _Peter_.

It’s him. It has to be him. She could never forget his scent.

She doesn’t know how it’s possible, because Tony said he wasn’t coming home _ever_ and she thought she knew what ever meant, but maybe not because here Peter is, walking towards her with Tony’s arm around him.

She runs. Lungs heaving, legs pounding, faster than she’s ever run in her life and there’s a bark building in her throat, an exultant, triumphant _shout_ of joy.

She leaps at Peter, bowling him over into the grass, and his laugh rings out.

Oh, his laugh. Her Peter. Her boy.

Oh, how she’s missed him.

She smears kisses across every inch of his face, yipping between each one. Peter’s hands find her favorite places behind her ears, under her jaw, scratching and stroking.

“Hey, girl. Hey, Maggie,” he says in that perfect voice, the one he uses just for her.

She yips again, buries her head against his chest. She can hear his heartbeat and whines at the sound, because she’s missed it. She’s missed him. She has never loved anyone like she loves Peter.

“Alright, come on, Mags, let the kid up for air,” Tony’s voice says. She doesn’t want to, but she obeys, turning and nipping affectionately at Tony’s hands too. She looks up at Tony and there are tears running down his cheeks. He’s beaming at them.

“I brought him home, Mags,” he says, holding Maggie’s face between his hands. “I brought him home to us.”

Maggie kisses him, too.

 

They all end up in Peter’s room after the celebrations have died down a bit and Peter had started to fall asleep against his dad’s shoulder. Maggie is content to never leave Peter’s side again, and Tony seems to feel the same way, judging by how he curls around his son, watches his face like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s quiet, but a different kind of quiet than it used to be. It’s peaceful, calm. Maggie feels her eyelids drooping where her head is resting on Peter’s stomach. Tony keeps pressing kisses to the side of Peter’s face, running his hand through Peter’s hair.

Maggie remembers two weeks after Peter had died. Tony had broken down and, in a fit of grief and rage, destroyed nearly everything in his own room. Maggie had found him collapsed on the floor with bloody hands, his expression blank and lifeless. They’d slept in Peter’s room that night. Tony had screamed into the pillows while Maggie pressed herself against his back, trying to sweat the pain out of him.

The difference between the two images is enough to make Maggie pick up her head and nudge Peter’s chin again, lick gently at his cheek. He scratches absently at her fur with one hand, the other wrapped around Tony’s wrist.

The room is exactly how Peter left it, down to the shoes on the floor. Tony had been careful, as he cleaned. The only difference is the little frame that used to sit on Peter’s bedside table is missing now. The one Tony had held as he cried himself to sleep the night Peter died.  

They hadn’t had a body to bury, so Maggie and Tony had gone out to the tree by the lake, where Peter liked to sit and read, and dug a hole. Tony’s hands had shaken so badly as he put the frame in that he’d dropped it, shattering the glass.

It doesn’t matter now. They can take more pictures, now that Peter’s back. Dozens and dozens, if they want.

Peter’s almost asleep now. Maggie closes her eyes, lets herself start to drift off too, since Peter is here and Tony is here and they’re both safe.

“Love you, Mags,” Peter mutters, his words blurring together.

She licks his hand, sighs happily as she settles against him.

“Love you, Tony.”

“I love you, Peter,” Tony whispers back. “I love you. I love you.”

The sheets smell like Peter again.

They sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *unimpressed bleating noises because I kind of hate this but whatever*


	7. Biological Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far from my favorite but I haven't written anything in so long I figured I better just get something on the page. And yeah, this chapter was also inspired by Teen Wolf, cause it's a great show for whump. 
> 
> Warnings: blood.

The school halls were empty and quiet, echoing Tony’s footsteps back to him. The principal hadn’t been very clear about why he’d wanted Tony to come to an after school meeting, but Tony figured it was about the same thing he’d noticed himself: Peter had been... weird lately. Quiet, forgetful, twitchy. Tony was worried, and the fact that his son was acting so strangely the school felt the need to call him in for a meeting made his fears skyrocket.

He opened the door to the front office, closing it quietly behind him before looking up. Peter was there, along with another older boy.

“Hey, kid,” Tony said, stepping closer. “What—”

His voice died. His heart beat so hard in his throat he couldn’t speak around it.

The other kid, a mere teenager, with messy blond hair and pale blue eyes and baby fat still on his cheeks, was holding a gun to his son’s head.

“What?” Tony breathed. “Pete—”

His hand went instinctively to his wrist, ready to summon a suit, to sound the alarm, anything.

The gun knocked against Peter’s temple as the kid adjusted his aim.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Hands up.”

Peter was looking at him, dark eyes fixed like he was waiting for Tony to save him. His little boy. He was only fourteen.

“Ok,” Tony said, holding his hands above his head. “Ok.”

“Dad—” Peter started.

“Shut up,” the kid snapped. “Or I shoot him instead.”

“It’s ok, Pete,” Tony soothed. “We’ll just do what he says and we’ll both be fine, ok?”

“Think so?” The boy muttered darkly and Tony’s heart skipped a beat. The kid walked forward, snatching at Tony’s wrist, the one with his watch on it. The gun was still pointed at Peter. Tony tried to size him up, make a plan, something, but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off his son’s pale face.

The watch clicked off and the kid tossed it in a corner, where it fell behind a filing cabinet.

“Alright, see, no cavalry coming, it’s just us here,” Tony soothed. “Why don’t we talk this out?”

The kid snarled, looking back at Peter. “Does he ever shut up?”

Peter’s lips pursed. “Adam,” he said, his voice shockingly steady. “He’s cooperating, you don’t need to hurt him.”

Tony bit back his instinctual disputation, his almost innate need to say that he didn’t care what happened to him, shoot him, just leave his son alone.

“Oh, I won’t,” Adam said. Tony’s stomach didn’t even have time to drop in terror before a shot rang out.

Peter fell back, hitting one of the wooden chairs against the wall.

“Peter!” Tony screamed, already stepping forward, desperate to get to his kid. Blood was staining the front of Peter’s shirt, his breathing was loud and ragged. He’d barely even made a noise of pain, and Tony had a feeling he hadn’t really registered that he’d been shot yet.

Adam turned the gun toward Tony.

“No,” Peter gasped, trying to right himself.

“Shut up, Stark,” Adam barked, and Tony wasn’t really sure which one of them he was talking to.

“Adam,” he tried.

“Shut up!” Adam rounded on him. “Sit, there, by the radiator.”

Tony looked back at Peter. “Just let me put pressure on it, please. You might have hit his liver, he could bleed out.”

To his surprise, Adam smiled, a sarcastic little twist of his lips. “You think so?”

“What? Adam, please, that’s my kid, if I could just—"

“You want me to shoot you too?” Adam yelled, brandishing the gun.

As much as Tony wanted to argue, to take his chance and lunge at Adam, to make him pay for shooting his kid and stopping Tony from helping him, he had to stay calm. Getting himself shot wouldn’t do Peter any good.

He took a shaky breath, then held up his hands and sat on the floor, his back against the radiator. Adam came over with a pair of handcuffs and twisted Tony’s arms over his head, cuffing them behind him in a position that made his shoulders scream in protest.

Peter coughed and Tony’s attention swiveled back to him. They made eye contact and Peter smiled, forced and hollow. There was blood on his lips.

“I’m ok, Dad. It doesn’t even hurt.”

Tony’s heart broke. He strained against the handcuffs, aching to pull Peter towards him, to tend to his wound, to shield him with his own body from the madman holding them hostage.

His voice shook as he spoke, the words thick with fear. “That’s the adrenaline, baby.”

Adam looked between them. “He really has no idea, does he?”

“Adam, come on, this is about me,” Peter said. His voice crackled and caught on the blood in his throat. Maybe the bullet hadn’t hit his liver, maybe it had hit his lung. His kid might be drowning in his own blood right now and for some reason, he was worried about _Tony_. “Let him go.”

“Not yet,” Adam hissed, pacing away again to peer out the window, probably looking for cop cars. Tony spared half a thought to where the principal was, where the secretaries were. He craned his neck and was able to peer through a crack in the door to the Morita’s office, saw a limp hand. Praying he was just unconscious, Tony turned away.

Tony swallowed, made eye contact with Peter. He was pale, sweat beading on his forehead.

Tony had to do something.

 _I love you_ , he thought, looking at Peter with as much affection on his face as he could muster. Peter’s mouth twitched, like he got the message. Tony smiled back, then mouthed, as clearly as possible, _RUN_. Peter’s eyes went wide, but Tony was already turning away.

“So, Adam, what’s the next step here, kid?”

Adam whirled on him, gun taking quivering aim at Tony’s head.

“I mean, you’ve done really well so far, and I mean that. Not many people can get a hold of Iron Man, but you did it, you’ve got me. I’m not moving. So what’s the objective, man, what’s the goal? I don’t think I’m here just to look pretty.”

Tony honestly wasn’t sure what was coming out of his mouth at the moment, he was just putting his entire focus into not looking at Peter, who was slowly standing from the floor.

Adam glared at him for a moment, hesitating. Then he finally sighed. “You weren’t supposed to be here at all.”

Tony’s brain froze. Peter, in his peripheral, flinched.

“Come again? You’re holding a billionaire superhero hostage on... accident?” Tony asked, blinking.

“I didn’t realize Morita had already called you,” Adam confessed, fiddling with the strings on his hoodie with the hand that wasn’t holding the gun. It was such a childish gesture, one Tony had seen his own son do dozens of times when he was stressed.

“You... you just wanted my kid?” Tony’s voice was low, terrified. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

In the corner, Peter was trying to creep into the nurse’s office, presumably to slip out the window. The hand he had pressed over the bullet hole was covered in blood.

“I wanted Spider-Man,” Adam sneered, a small smile curving up the side of his mouth. He glanced over his shoulder to where Peter had been a moment ago, and then let out a snarling yell as he realized Peter wasn’t there.

“No!” Tony gasped.

Adam spun, spotted Peter, and fired.

Peter did scream this time, collapsing to the ground. Tony jerked against his handcuffs, tearing the skin at his wrists and barely registering it as blood soaked into his sleeves.

“Oh, my gosh,” Tony panted, his eyes full of tears. “Oh, my gosh. It’s ok, baby. It’s ok, it’s ok—”

“Dad,” Peter moaned, clutching his thigh, blood pouring over his hands and staining the carpet below him. “Da-dad.”

“I know, love, I’m coming, ok? I’m coming, baby, just—” He turned to Adam, tears dripping off his chin. “Please, he could die. Please, please, just let me—”

“No, Dad, it’s ok, I’m ok—”

Tony twisted, jerking at his cuffs, trying to break free, trying to find an angle where he could dislocate his thumb and slip out of them, anything, _anything_ to save his kid.

“Stop moving!” Adam roared over both of them. “Or the next one goes in his head!”

Tony stopped, his chest heaving.

 He sucked in a breath, grasped at all his scattered wits, his utterly shattered calm.

“Please, just let him go. I can get you money, a new life, anything you want,” Tony begged.

Adam stalked forward, gesturing at Tony emphatically with the gun. “I want you,” he hissed, “to _shut up_.”

Tony swallowed, looking over to where Peter was trying to sit up against a filing cabinet.

“Ok,” Tony panted. “Ok.”

Adam nodded, his own breathing a little fast. His eyes kept cutting toward the window.

“Now, we’re all going to sit here and be quiet and wait for my boss to come pick up the little insect.”

Peter’s eyes darted up to Adam in alarm. Then he glanced sideways to Tony, his expression unreadable.

Tony had no idea what was going on. His normal intelligence seemed to have flown out the window with Peter’s safety, and now he was scrambling to connect the dots.

Adam had said he wanted Spider-Man.

He hadn’t wanted Tony there.

A cell phone ringing made all three of them jump.

Adam fished his phone out of his pocket, glaring at each of them in turn before wandering a few feet away, listening intently.

“Peter, baby, how’re you doing?” Tony asked quietly.

“Shh,” Peter said, his eyes closed. “I’m trying to listen.”

Tony blinked. He strained his own ears but couldn’t even hear the voice on the other end let alone make out what it was saying.

Peter apparently could though. He swore quietly. Tony looked between the two teenagers, his heart beat ratcheting up again when Peter started to move.

“Kid, don’t—”

Peter put his palm on the wall and levered himself up. The way his face crumpled in agony made pain shoot through Tony like a knife. Once Peter was standing, he put both hands against the wall like he was bracing himself, only standing on his good leg.

And then he lifted himself off the ground. Tony’s heart stopped. Peter placed the toe of his one good foot against the wall and lifted himself further, climbing until he reached the ceiling where he positioned himself, tucked away in the corner furthest from the lights.

Tony just stared at him, his mouth gaping.

Peter, after making sure he was secure, lifted his head and met Tony’s gaze. His eyes were apologetic, his face still terribly pale.

A drop of blood fell and splashed on the floor.

Adam turned, hanging up the phone with a muttered curse. He glanced at Tony first, who had quickly shut his mouth, and then to where Peter had been.

“Where—” Adam was cut off as Peter sprang into action, swinging down from his crouch and kicking Adam in the face with his good leg.

Adam immediately crumpled, his nose gushing blood and his eyes rolling up in his head.

Peter let go of the ceiling and flipped down, landing in a crouch then hissing at the wound in his thigh.

He scrambled over to Tony, grabbed the handcuffs and pulled, instantly breaking them.

“Three more guys are coming,” Peter said quickly, not meeting Tony’s eyes. He crossed to his backpack, abandoned in the corner of the office, and pulled out two bulky pieces of metal and plastic, which he fastened on both wrists.

“You need your gauntlet,” he muttered, almost to himself. Tony was still sitting in shock on the floor.

Peter limped toward the corner where Adam had thrown his watch earlier, lifting the filing cabinet with one hand and fishing it out before tossing it to Tony. Tony caught it by habit, numbly fastening it around his wrist.

Finally, finally, Peter paused, looking up at him from under his lashes. His hair was a mess, the haphazard curls a little stiff with sweat, and his favorite Midtown sweatshirt was dyed crimson from blood, along with one leg of Peter’s jeans. The kid was swaying slightly.

They stared at each other for a moment. “...Well?” Peter finally asked.

Tony pushed himself to his feet. “Pete...”

Metal doors slammed and loud voices echoed in the hall. Peter jumped, then winced, and Tony, finally with it enough to act, stepped in front of him, activating his gauntlet.

Peter made to climb the wall again, but Tony drew in a sharp breath and he looked over his shoulder.

“Dad. I can help.”

“You’re hurt,” Tony argued. “And...”

“And what?” Peter asked. The footsteps were getting closer.

Tony opened his mouth. _And I don’t know what you are_ , he thought. But he wouldn’t say that to his kid. It would break his heart.

“Just be careful.”

The men barged into the room and were instantly met with the combined strength of Iron Man and Spider-Man. It was over in no more than a minute.

They both stood, panting and staring at each other for a minute, and then Peter was flinging himself at his dad. Tony instantly opened his arms, pulling his son close to his chest and sinking to the ground.

They were talking over each other, Tony grappling to get a look at Peter’s injuries while Peter tried to bat his hands away.

“I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t know how to tell you, I hated lying to you, I swear, but I have to do this,” Peter was stammering, hissing between words as he tried to shift all the weight off his leg.

Tony shook his head, barely even hearing Peter. “How are you even conscious right now, kid? You’ve lost so much blood, we-we’ve got to get you to a hospital, I need to call an-an ambulance—” Tony tugged Peter’s shirt up, expecting to find a gaping wound still oozing blood, but instead seeing what looked like a week old injury.

Peter finally stopped talking. Tony swallowed, then turned to his leg, tearing at the denim enough to see that the leg wound, while still open, was barely bleeding at all.

There was silence for a breath.

“Dad?”

Tony put a steadying hand on Peter’s knee. “Oh, thank heavens,” he breathed. “Oh, my gosh, thank you.” He felt weak, suddenly, shaking all over as pure relief flooded him. With trembling hands, he reached out and yanked Peter into his arms.

“Dad?” Peter asked again, his warm breath fanning across Tony’s neck. Warm. Alive. “Are... are you ok?”

“Oh, my baby,” Tony whispered, burying his hand in Peter’s hair. “I thought you were going to die. I thought... I have never been so scared in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered, blood-sticky hands clutching at Tony’s dress shirt.

“No, don’t... Just...” He pressed his lips to Peter’s temple and stayed there, breathing his boy in.

“You’re not... not mad?” Peter asked, hesitant, his muscles tense.

Honestly, Tony couldn’t even think about the fact that his son was now, suddenly, a super-powered vigilante risking his life fighting crime and Tony hadn’t even _noticed_. He was still in too much shock to be mad.

“No. I don’t care. Well, I do care. I’m going to care a lot once you’ve been given the all clear by the doctor, but right now I just... I love you, Peter. I love you and right now I’m too relieved to be mad.”

Peter slumped against him, relieved. “Love you too, Dad.”

“Ok, Spider-Kid, let’s get out of here. The cops are on their way and I don’t want to be there to meet them. Not to mention Doctor Cho’s got a bullet to dig out of you,” Tony said, pressing a quick kiss to Peter’s head and then starting to heave himself up, helping Peter stand.

“Eh, it’ll be better than digging it out myself,” Peter said shrugging. Tony’s heart constricted.

“Which you’ve never done, right?”

Peter scooped up his bag to avoid eye contact. “Of course not, it was a hypothetical example.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony said, slinging an arm over Peter’s shoulders and pulling him close into his side as they limped along. “And the call I got from Principal Morita about you ditching class was totally hypothetical too, right?”

Peter chuckled, a high, nervous sound. “Of course.”

“Oh, buddy, you’re going to be so grounded when I come down from this adrenaline high.”

Peter smiled, pressed himself closer to his dad. “Yeah, that’s fair.”


	8. AU: Biological Dad (take two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I... hated my last chapter. A lot. So much that I'm redoing the prompt. But, I have a policy not to take down any work that I have published, so the previous (terrible) chapter is staying, and you're getting an extra (hopefully better) one.

Tony’s knuckles were white against the dark leather of his steering wheel. It was a miracle he hadn’t been drunk when the call had come in: Mary wasn’t supposed to deliver for another three weeks and Tony kept convincing himself that he had time to kick the habit.

It was 5 AM and there were more cars on the road than he would have expected. Early birds trying to beat the morning traffic, he supposed, but he didn’t know. So much of the world was foreign to him, really, so much of the minutiae of normal life, the wonderfully mundane existence that so many people lived, that revolved around work and family and once a month nights out with their friends that always went late cause they were too busy catching up to notice the time.

Tony didn’t get that. He didn’t understand laundry day or stopping in the grocery store to chat with someone you haven’t seen in a while or the laughter filled chaos of getting a kid bathed and put to bed on time.

He would now, if he did this right. If he managed not to screw things up for the first time in his life, he could get a taste of it, that long unattainable balm of normality. If he did this right, he could hold happiness in his arms.

They were going to call him Peter, Mary had told him.

He turned into the hospital parking lot, following the signs to the maternity ward.

 

 

He hadn’t even thought to bring a car they could put a car seat in. His first act as a father and he’d already messed up.

Happy had to go buy a five-seater sedan and drive it from the lot to the hospital. He’d even picked green, just to spite Tony. He hated green cars.

Peter was sleepy and grumbly as Tony struggled with the fasteners. The final click of the seat belt felt absurdly monumental for such a tiny thing. After this Tony would be climbing into the driver’s seat of a practical, family car, and he would drive his son home, and he would be a dad.

People told him he would learn as he went. That it came naturally, that soon enough he’d be changing diapers and preparing bottles like he’d been doing it all his life. Tony was a fast learner, but he wondered if there were things he could never learn. Maybe he’d learn to change the kid’s diaper, but never quite understand how to lull him to sleep. He could put him to bed on time, but what if he never stayed to read him a story? Can you learn tenderness from a book?

Tony tossed the keys to the Audi to Happy and climbed into the new car, the smell of the faux-leather seats unfamiliar but pleasant enough. He adjusted the rearview mirror until he could see Peter doubly reflected at him from the mirror on the headrest. The kid’s eyes were barely open, the dark tuft of hair on his head covered by the hat the nurse had put on.

“Alright, Petey,” Tony said, and Peter stirred just enough for Tony to know that he heard him.

Tony took a breath and put the car into drive.

“Here we go.”

 

 

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” Peter chanted, already tugging at the straps of his booster seat, kicking his little sneakers against the leather upholstery.

“Calm down, kiddo, they’re not going to start without you,” Tony said, forcing a smile as he leaned into the backseat and undid the buckles, letting Peter slip off the seat and out of the car. He forgot his tiny little backpack—equipped with nothing but a box of crayons and Peter’s favorite stuffed animal—in his rush, so Tony grabbed it before slamming the door closed, the small dent in the green paint catching the light.

Peter’s face was only slightly apprehensive as Tony crouched down in front of him, helping him shrug the backpack on.

“Ok, buddy,” Tony murmured, his mouth dry. “You excited?”

Peter nodded eagerly. The kid was already a genius, who loved reading and exploring and learning and Tony knew that he’d be fine, he really, really did. But he couldn’t quit convince his heart of that.

“It’s going to be fun, huh? I’m jealous,” Tony teased.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows, his big eyes narrowing.

“But you already know how to read, Daddy,” Peter pointed out. “And count and things.”

Tony smiled again, more naturally this time.

“That’s true. I guess that means I don’t need to come after all.”

“I don’t think the chairs are big enough for you anyway,” Peter giggled. Tony’s heart broke, just a little bit.

“I love you, baby.”

“Love you, Daddy!” Peter chirped, leaning forward for his habitual kiss, which Tony happily gave, plus a few extras.

“I’ll see you later. Stay with the teacher until I come get you, ok?”

“Uh-huh,” Peter agreed, then turned and trotted over to the waiting line of students and teachers, his little feet still slightly pigeon-toed and his hair sticking up in the back.

Tony stood and leaned against the car until Peter was inside, then climbed in and sat for a long, long time.

 

 

The sling made it hard to buckle Peter’s booster seat, but he waved away Pepper’s hands and did it himself anyway.

As he sat back, he let his good hand drift up to Peter’s face, cupping his son’s round, tear-stained cheek and wiping away the sticky salt tracks.

Peter watched him like he never wanted to look away, like he was afraid Tony would disappear if he blinked. Tony hated himself for making Peter afraid of anything, hated the three months of separation they had endured with a hot, sparking anger that only mellowed slightly when he met Peter’s gaze.

“I grew an inch and a half, Daddy,” Peter whispered, leaning over as much as he could in his seat and pressing his cheek against Tony’s arm.

Tony shifted closer, too, taking his boy’s little hand in his own calloused one. Was it bigger, or was he imagining it? Three months in the life of a six-year-old was so much. He’d missed four percent of his son’s life, four percent of his laughs and tears and questions and breaths. Someone had _made_ him miss them: had trapped him in a dank cave and tortured him and threatened to make him miss his son’s entire life, make him miss seeing his boy grow up. It was unforgivable.

Tony cleared his throat and shook away thoughts of missiles and metal suits.

“Really? You’ll be taller than me, soon, kiddo.”

Peter hummed happily at that, pleased at the idea. “And I lost a tooth and Pepper gave me a dollar and pretended it was from the tooth fairy.”

Tony looked up and met Pepper’s eyes across the backseat. She was watching them, subtly sniffing and wiping at stray tears, but she huffed a small laugh at Peter’s confession, rolling her eyes.

“Did she now?” Tony asked, smirking at her. Her returning smile was too soft and grateful and happy. Tony swallowed and looked away.

“Daddy,” Peter murmured again, his voice wobbly. “I thought you were going to miss my birthday.”

Peter turned seven in four days. When Rhodey had told him the date Tony had nearly broken down sobbing, either in joy or grief he wasn’t sure.

Tony leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Peter’s head.

“Nothing in the world could make me miss your birthday, Peter.” Tony promised, his voice hoarse.

Peter’s bottom lip trembled. “I was going to wish for you to come home when I blew out my candles.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked again, fighting the tears burning behind his eyes. “I wished for that, too. Every night.”

Peter lightly kicked the back of the driver seat, his light up sneaker glowing blue as he did. Peter smiled at it, his little hand still wrapped in his dad’s.

“Guess it worked, then.”

 

 

“We’ll get you feeling better, ok, buddy?” Tony said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice as his son slumped listlessly in the passenger seat. Tony had had to do up his seat belt for him like he was still a toddler.

Peter had had a headache, he said, when he came back from the field trip to Oscorp. He’d gone to take a nap, but when Tony had woken him up for dinner, his fever was 103 and his words were slurring together. He could barely stand let alone walk in a straight line.

Tony chose his fastest car in an effort to get to the ER sooner, but the traffic was terrible at this time of day and he spent most of his time sitting at red lights, his fingers anxiously tapping against the steering wheel as he watched Peter growing steadily paler in the front seat.

He should have called an ambulance. Heck, he should have flown in the suit. They would be there by now, Peter would already be getting treated.

“Hey, kiddo, talk to me,” Tony softly pleaded, reaching out to brush Peter’s sweaty bangs off his forehead.

“Dad,” Peter panted, his eyes screwed shut, tears beginning to make their way down his cheeks.

“Oh, Pete,” Tony sighed, taking Peter’s hand in his own as the line of cars began creeping forward.

Peter squeezed back with a strength Tony didn’t know he possessed, making the bones in Tony’s fingers ache. And then his hand went completely limp in Tony’s, his head lolling until it hit the window with a thud.

Tony’s stomach dropped, his heart leaping toward his throat.

“Peter?” Tony asked breathlessly, taking his attention completely off the crawling traffic in front of him and turning towards his kid. He jammed two fingers against Peter’s throat, feeling his pulse racing under his skin. His skin was burning hot and slick with sweat.

“Pete, wake up,” Tony ordered, tapping his cheek with one hand and raising his chin with the other. Peter’s eyes were moving rapidly behind his eyelids like he was having a bad dream, but he didn’t respond.

“Come on, wake up.” His voice broke. He shook Peter lightly, in one last effort to rouse him.

Peter’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, each breath shallow and fruitless.

“Ok. Get a grip, Stark,” Tony told himself, the car jerking forward as he finally pressed on the gas. They were four blocks away from the hospital. He only had to make it four blocks.

“Ok, it’s going to be fine, buddy, you’re going to be just fine,” Tony rambled to his unconscious son. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but the doctors are going to figure it out and fix you up, just like always.”

They’d had more than one panicked drive to the emergency room throughout Peter’s fourteen years. He’d been only two when he’d had his first asthma attack, Tony holding him as he ran into the lobby with tears streaming down his cheeks as his baby boy fought for every breath, his lips nearly blue. There had been several times since, when Tony would drive with once hand clenched around the wheel to hide its shaking while he rubbed the other along Peter’s knobby spine, coaching him to breathe in and out _slowly, baby, go slow. It’s ok, Daddy’s got you._     

Tony took the turn into the parking lot too sharply, making the tires squeal and the car jolt. Peter’s head hit the window again, the seat belt biting into his neck where it was supporting his boneless weight.

“Sorry,” Tony gasped as he sped toward the bright lights of the ER. He swerved toward the doors, pulling to a stop right in front of them, turning it off and yanking the keys out on muscle memory alone. He honestly didn’t care if someone stole the thing. Now that help was so close, attainable, now that Tony could do something more than idle in a long line of traffic and chatter uselessly to himself, he needed to get Peter inside _now_. Every cell was aching with the need for Peter to be alright, for him to be safe and taken care of.

Tony raced around the car, yanking the passenger door open and undoing Peter’s seatbelt, letting him tumble into Tony’s arms.

The boy had long since grown out of being small enough to be carried, but Tony could care less as he shifted his arm under Peter’s knees, holding the kid close to his chest.

“It’s ok, baby,” Tony promised fervently as he straightened and rushed toward the hospital doors. “Dad’s got you.”

 

 

“Ok, all you’re going to do is ease off the brake.”

Peter cast him a nervous look, biting his lip, but he took a deep breath and did as he was told, slowly picking his foot up. The car began inching forward.

Peter slammed his foot back down, making Tony jerk against the seatbelt. He gave an unimpressed look at the anxious sixteen-year-old sitting in the front seat of the old 2001 sedan, the faux leather seats now cracking and peeling.

“I wasn’t expecting it to move,” Peter said sheepishly.

“That’s ok,” Tony assured him. “It is going to move forward even if you aren’t pushing the gas. Do it again and let it coast a bit, ok?”

Peter seemed a little more ready this time, fighting the obvious urge to brake again as the car crept forward at a few miles per hour.

“Now press very gently on the gas,” Tony instructed. The car leapt forward a bit as Peter stepped down too hard, but levelled out to a steady ten miles an hour as he adjusted.

Tony leaned his head back against the headrest, grinning over at his son.

“Not bad, Pete. A little faster, ok?”

They drove in circles on the compound driving course for another hour, practicing gradual braking and accelerating, turns and parking.

“Ok, kiddo, let’s take a little trip,” Tony decided as the sun crept toward the horizon.

Peter’s eyes flew open wide, the panic that had left him immediately rushing back.

Tony snorted, reaching over and ruffling his hair. “On a straight, deserted road in the middle of nowhere. You can do it, I have faith in you.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Peter asked, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel.

“Hey, don’t break the wheel,” Tony chided, reaching over and loosening Peter’s enhanced grip. “If it gets sketchy, I’ll take over, ok? Now take a right out of here.”

Peter took to driving like he took to everything—once the nerves were sorted out, he was intuitive and clever and confident. Tony just sat back and watched him, the red light of the setting sun playing in his hair and eyes, the way he bit his lip every time he checked his speed. Finally, Tony told him to pull over and turn off the car.

Ignoring Peter’s question of what they were doing there, Tony got out and went to the trunk, pulling out a blanket. Then he spread it out on the hood and climbed on.

“Come on, Pete,” Tony said, holding an arm out in invitation for Peter to join him.

Peter raised an eyebrow, but clambered onto the hood as well, settling against Tony’s side.

“You know, I drove you home from the hospital in this car,” Tony said, tucking Peter’s head under his chin.

“Really?” Peter asked, sounding surprised.

Tony hummed a little. “You were three weeks early and I had no idea what I was doing. I’d driven an Audi to the hospital,” Tony snorted. “Not exactly built for driving kiddos to soccer practice. Happy had to go buy a car so that I could buckle your car seat in.”

Peter laughed. “I bet he loved that.”

The stars were starting to come out, already bright against the falling twilight. The country road they were parked on was free from streetlights or other cars, the light pollution from the city far behind them.

“And now you’re learning to drive in it,” Tony murmured, feeling a little bit of melancholy creep over him. He couldn’t believe his kid was sixteen. Not to mention a superhero, but Tony didn’t like to think about that when he was feeling emotional.

Sometimes he looked at Peter and remembered the little kid who couldn’t say his L’s until he was five, who would only take naps in the car, making Tony drive around the city in circles for hours at a time so the kid would get a proper nights sleep.

Peter glanced over at him. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Dad,” he said, his smirk a little too soft to be truly teasing.

Tony huffed a small laugh, shrugging. “Well, I’m entitled. It’s a milestone in a kid’s life, to learn how to drive.”

Peter looked up at the sky. “It doesn’t feel that big, compared to things that I’ve seen and done. Things we’ve done together.”  

It was true, they’d had more life-and-death situations than most fathers and sons, more scrapes and bruises and hospital visits than they could count. He’d seen his boy in a hospital bed too many times.

“It is big, anyway,” Tony reminded him. “The average things are just as important as the superhuman things. Your life can’t be... battles to save the world all the time. You need the little things to make the big things worth it.”

Peter turned his head and smiled at Tony.

“Like stargazing with my dad?” he asked.

“Like teaching my son to drive,” Tony agreed.

Peter curled a little closer to Tony, laying his head on his shoulder.

“I love you, kid,” Tony whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Love you, too.”


	9. Jealousy

“You’re not my brother.”

Peter blinks at the little dark haired girl in front of him. He’d met Morgan a couple times, in the hospital with Tony. She’d been shy, but sweet, so this is unexpected. “Um, no, I—I’m not.”

Morgan eyes him for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed in aggravation. “Daddy calls you my brother, but you aren’t.”

“O-ok.”

Tony walks in then, his face creased in exhaustion and pain. The burns on his face pull down one side of his mouth in a perpetual frown.

But the heaviness is temporary. The second he sees Peter and Morgan his eyes light up, the frown twists up into a half-smile. He looks younger.

Peter’s heart flips in his chest at the sight, grief and gratitude in equal measure. Tony meets his eyes and his eyebrows crease like he can hear Peter’s thoughts. Tony takes a breath and opens his mouth—

“Daddy!” Morgan cries. Peter flinches as the moment is abruptly shattered.

“Hello, little miss,” Tony says, casually scooping her up into his good arm, propping her on his hip and kissing her cheek, making her giggle. “Have you been playing with Pete?”

They hadn’t been, really, but Morgan nods all the same. Tony carries her into the kitchen to begin lunch, leaving Peter alone in the living room.

 

Morgan roars as she brings her stuffed dragon down on the Lego castle Peter had helped her build. Peter fakes terrified screaming, making Morgan laugh.

Morgan seems to like Peter well enough when it’s just the two of them. She’ll play with him and watch movies, and on the rare occasion Tony and Pepper go out she’ll listen when he tells her it’s time for bed. But the second Tony is involved, Morgan gets fiercely protective of his attention and easily annoyed with Peter, as if he’s a babysitter who’s no longer needed once her dad’s home.

It’s not like Peter doesn’t know why Morgan doesn’t like him—she’s spent her whole life with Tony by her side every minute of every day and now suddenly Tony’s attention is divided. She’s an only child, she isn’t used to having to share. And she’s too young to know how to vocalize her jealousy to her dad. But it makes life pretty awkward for Peter. He can’t just turn down all of Tony’s invitations to visit, nor does he want to. He loves being around Tony, cherishes the time they spend together. But now, more often than not, it’s interrupted by Morgan throwing a tantrum or dragging Tony away to play with her.

Last week, Morgan had tried to follow them into the lab—where she knows she is absolutely not allowed to go—and had been so upset when she couldn’t come with that they had ended up foregoing lab time altogether and spent the afternoon having a tea party instead, with Tony and Peter sending each other baleful looks as they sipped their imaginary beverages.

It comes to a head the next weekend. It isn’t one of Peter’s scheduled visits, but the minor concussion and six inch gash up his back mean that he’s at the Stark cabin anyway, Tony having sent a suit to fish him out of a rain drenched dumpster.

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter says for the umpteenth time as Tony vigorously dries his hair with a towel.

Tony hums in disagreement, barely listening. “’Don’t open a Med Center in Queens,’ Pepper says. ‘Peter will think you’re hovering,’ Rhodey says—”

“You are hovering,” Peter interrupts. Tony just keeps muttering.

“They aren’t the ones that have to fly to the city twice a week to drag an unconscious, bleeding, delirious Spider-kid all the way back to the freaking boonies—”

“I am neither unconscious nor delirious. And you weren’t even flying that suit, technically.”

“Stop talking and get your suit off, you need stitches,” Tony snaps. He tugs on Peter’s ear in annoyance, but the touch is so light it’s more of a caress than anything, belying the anger in his tone. He’s just worried. It would be more annoying if Peter wasn’t the exact same way.

Peter peels the suit off down to his waist, sitting at the kitchen island while Tony gets the supplies he needs. Peter can hear Tony washing his hands and when he does come and touch Peter’s back, his fingers are warm from the hot water.

Peter takes a deep breath and does his best to relax under Tony’s touch, rather than tense up in anticipation of the stitches.

“There you go, buddy,” Tony murmurs. His voice has entirely lost its edge now, his only concern making sure that Peter is well taken care of. “I’m thinking five or six stitches for this, not too bad.”

Peter snorts humorlessly, then curses as Tony pours antiseptic over the wound.

Peter keeps up a rambling narration of his day as Tony works, trying to distract himself. Tony responds between sutures as he threads the needle again.

He’s in the middle of the third stitch when Peter tenses half a second before—

“Daddy?”

It speaks to how often Tony has done this that he knows not to flinch. Instead he lets go of the needle and carefully pulls his hands away from Peter’s wound.

“What are doing up, little miss? It’s late.”

Morgan eyes Peter warily. She can’t see Peter’s back from her vantage point, but that also means Peter’s staring her straight in the face and can’t really move.

“I woke up and can’t fall back asleep without a story.”

“Go ask Mommy, baby, I have to help Peter with something,” Tony says, his voice soft. His puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, warm and gentle, to assure him that he won’t leave him.

Morgan pouts. “But you always read me my story.”

“I know, but I can’t right now, ok? I’ll come up in a little bit to check on you,” Tony assures her again. Under other circumstances, Peter is sure Tony would round the island and pick her up and kiss her cheek to soften the blow, but his hands are almost certainly bloody right now, and he doesn’t want to scare her.

“But,” Morgan starts again, her pout growing even more pronounced as she glares at Peter.

“Morgan,” Tony interrupts, voice firm but not angry. “Peter needs me right now. Go get your mom.”

Morgan’s face screws up as tears start gathering in her eyes, loud sobs trailing behind her as she turns and flees up the stairs.

Peter grits his teeth.

“You can go,” he murmurs.

“Nope,” Tony says, his hands steady as he continues on to the next stitch. “Bleeding trumps crying.”

“What beats bleeding?”

“Dying.”

“Does that mean crying beats dying?” Peter asks, inhaling sharply as the thread was pulled tight.

“No.”

“This game doesn’t make sense.”

“ _Peter_ ,” Tony warns in that dad voice that he perfected during the Snap. Peter glances back at him and sees his tight jaw, the way his brow wrinkles. He hates the thought of not being able to comfort his crying daughter as much as the thought of leaving Peter bleeding in his kitchen.

Peter wonders for the first time if this is hard for him too. Morgan isn’t used to having a sibling, and neither is Peter, but Tony has never been a parent to two living children before. And the way he loves is so devoted, so all consuming, Peter imagines that it’s hard having to prioritize needs when Tony’s instinct is to fix _everything_.

“You can go, Tony,” Peter says again.

Tony sighs, setting the suture tools down and looking up at Peter with a tired smile.

“She has to learn to share me sometime, Pete. Because if I have any say in the matter—and I do—you’re not going away any time soon.”

Peter avoids his eyes, feeling suddenly horribly guilty. If he was Morgan, and his brother-but-not-really came back from the dead, he isn’t sure how much he would like him either.

There’s quiet for a few more minutes as Tony finishes bandaging his back, then he rounds to the other side of the island, raising Peter’s chin with a finger.

“We’re all adjusting, Pete, but that doesn’t mean things were better before. I would rather have Morgan be a little jealous than go back to... missing you. Any day. Not even a question, kid.”

Peter nods jerkily.

Tony eyes him for another moment, then nods. “Alright, my love. Pajamas for you, I’ll clean up here.”

Peter stands, shaking his head. He wants to hoard Tony to himself, wants to ask for an episode of Star Trek to help him sleep, wants Tony to stay and stroke his hair and hum under his breath when he thinks Peter’s asleep.

But they’re all adjusting. And if Morgan has to share, so does Peter.

“Go check on Morgan,” Peter says. “I’ll clean up.”

He can tell Tony wants to argue out of principle, but his eyes dart to the stairs.

“Go on. Crying trumps cleaning,” Peter teases.

Tony’s face softens as he looks back at Peter. There’s so much gratitude and adoration on his face it makes Peter’s throat tighten with emotion.

“You’re a good brother, Peter,” Tony murmurs. He leans across the isle and pulls Peter’s head down so he can kiss his cheek.

Peter hums and leans into the touch. “Goodnight, Tony.”

“Night, kiddo,” Tony says, starting toward the stairs. “Don’t sleep on those stitches,” he calls over his shoulder.

Peter huffs, gathering together the soiled towels and medical supplies, moving around the kitchen like it’s his own home.

 

Morgan is in a bad mood the next morning, and her wary glances towards Peter have escalated into full on glares. Pepper and Tony both notice, having a silent conversation over the breakfast table that Peter can’t really understand. They spend the rest of the morning quietly putting together puzzles and coloring, but it doesn’t stop Morgan from breaking down crying no less than three times.

Finally, after lunch, Pepper takes her upstairs for a nap, whispering to Peter, “I’m so sorry, she must be tired,” as she does.

She is a bit more pleasant when she comes back, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. She even lets Peter help her build a tower out of Legos while Pepper and Tony make dinner.

It isn’t until they settle down for a movie together that Morgan’s temper really comes out.

Peter automatically gravitates to sit next to Tony, looking forward to curling into his side and dozing on his shoulder. Morgan, who’s already sitting on Pepper’s lap, frowns and crawls over Tony to take the available spot.

Peter stops short and blinks while Tony snorts. “Alright, little monkey, calm down,” he says, tugging on Morgan’s pigtail. She smiles up at him innocently.

Pepper shakes her head at her daughters antics, then holds out her arms to Peter. “Come cuddle with me, Peter, since Morgan doesn’t want to.”

Peter smiles and plops down between her and Tony and is instantly enveloped in a one armed hug from both sides. Tony’s hand lands in his hair while Pepper tugs him against her shoulder. He sighs contentedly, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling of family that surrounds him—

“No!”

Peter’s eyes fly open, jerking upright as he sees Morgan pushing herself away from her dad and standing on the couch, glowering down at Peter.

“You have your own parents,” Morgan snaps at him. “Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean you can steal mine!”

Peter’s jaw literally drops, more out of surprise than anything, but instantly a pang of hurt and grief echoes through his chest, making his breath come short. In the same second, Tony sits upright and Pepper gasps Morgan’s name.

“Morgan H. Stark, apologize to your brother,” Tony says, his voice serious and low.

“He’s not my brother!” Morgan yells, stomping her foot on the couch cushion.

Tony shoots to his feet, grabbing Morgan around the waist and hoisting her up against his shoulder.

Morgan screams, so high pitched it makes Peter’s ears fuzz out for a second. He can see Tony’s jaw twitch, but he doesn’t put her down. Peter knows that he isn’t hurting her—Tony would never, ever hurt his kids. Even in dire situations Tony is gentle with Peter and he’s certain that carries through to his daughter. But Morgan keeps screaming, tears pouring down her cheeks as Tony carries her toward the stairs.

Pepper watches looking torn, like she wants to follow, but instead she turns to Peter, reaching out and stroking his cheek with her thumb.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry, I don’t know...,” She trails off. “Listen, to Tony and to me, you’re our son. Alright? Morgan’s just... not used to sharing us.”

“I know,” Peter says, his voice more hoarse than he had expected. “I know, it’s ok.”

Pepper looks at him for a moment. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sighs, kissing the top of his head. “How about some cocoa, huh?”

“Sure.”

As Pepper goes to the kitchen to get cocoa started, Peter hugs a pillow to his chest and lets his hearing tune in to what’s happening upstairs.

Morgan is still audibly crying as Tony tries to quiet her. Morgan’s bed creaks as Tony sits down.

“You don’t love me anymore,” Morgan hiccups.

“Oh, baby, you know that isn’t true. You know it isn’t.”

“You sp-spend all your time with P-Peter.”

“Momo, I’m with you every day. Peter only comes for four days a month and even then we all play together. Think maybe you’re being a bit dramatic?” Classic Tony. He doesn’t sugarcoat, just tells the truth in his uniquely humorous way.

“No,” Morgan whimpers.

“Morgan,” he hears Tony sigh. Morgan’s sobs quiet down at her dad’s soft tone. There’s the sound of shifting fabric and Peter imagines Tony settling Morgan on his knee.

“Do you remember your fourth birthday?” Tony asks.

Morgan sniffles. “Yeah.”

“What did we do?”

“We had waffles and went to the dinosaur museum and I got to open a bunch of presents,” Morgan says, perking up a little bit.

“That’s right. And I let you eat cake for dinner and I gave you as many hugs and kisses as you wanted,” Tony adds, and Peter can hear the smile in his voice. He hugs the pillow a little closer to his chest.

“Do you know why I did that?” Tony asks.

“Because you love me,” Morgan reluctantly admits.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I love you so, so much.” More shifting, the soft sound of a kiss. “Now, do you remember a few weeks before that, when we went to Peter’s tree and we brought him cake and Legos and we played Spider-Man all day?”

Peter knows about his tree. One that Tony had planted in his honor after the Snap, on the edge of the lake. Tony had taken him there a couple weeks after he was released from the hospital. They’d sat there talking for hours and Tony had held him like he hadn’t wanted to let him go.

“You cried,” Morgan remembers and Peter squeezes his eyes closed.

Tony’s voice is thick when he answers. “Yeah, I did. Do you know why?”

“Because you love him,” Morgan mutters, her voice sullen again.

“Because I love him,” Tony agrees. “And I loved him even when he wasn’t there. I loved him when you were born, and when you said your first word, and two weeks ago when you hurt your ankle and I gave you piggyback rides all day. Does that mean I didn’t love you then?”

Morgan sniffs again. “I don’t know.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Tony assures her. “Because guess what.”

“What?”

“I love you when I’m helping Peter with his homework. And when we’re watching movies after you’ve gone to bed or working in the lab. You don’t just stop loving something when you can’t see it anymore, baby. When you love something as much as I love you, you love it forever. Nothing will change that.”

Morgan’s little voice is cautiously hopeful as she asks, “Really?”

“Really. The only thing that’s changed is that Peter’s here now, so we don’t have to be sad anymore.”

“I didn’t like it when you cried,” Morgan confesses. “It made me want to cry too.”

Tony’s next breath shudders as he exhales. “Well, we don’t have to cry anymore, either of us. Cause I’ve got you, and Mom, and Peter, and I’m really, really happy.”

“Then I’m happy too,” Morgan says with all the innocence of a child. There’s the sound of another kiss and happy giggles.

“Good. But you’ve still got apologize to Peter, little miss. You hurt his feelings.”

“Ok,” she chirps easily. The floor creaks as if Tony just stood up.

“I love you both with my whole heart, Morgan,” Tony says quietly with a sincerity that’s probably lost on such a little kid, but it makes Peter’s eyes prick with tears.

There’s a pause and then, “You can’t love us both with your whole heart, Daddy. That doesn’t make sense. You can love us with half your heart.”

“Well, maybe dads have extra hearts, huh?” Tony teases, his footsteps coming down the hall. “One for you and one for Peter.”

“Nuh-uh,” Morgan cries.

“Mm-hmm. And one for Mom and then another one for Uncle Rhodey and Uncle Happy and cheeseburgers.”

 Morgan laughs, then pauses. “ _Really?”_

Tony is assuring her that he’s telling the truth as they come down the stairs, Morgan laughing with her head on her dad’s shoulder.

“Alright, baby girl,” Tony says, making eye contact with Peter and coming toward him. “Do you have something to say to your big brother?”

Morgan nods as Tony sets her down in front of Peter. He retreats toward the kitchen, hovering where he can still hear.

Peter stares at Morgan for a minute and she just stares back, her head tilted to one side.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I was mean.”

Peter flounders for half a second, not used to such candor. “Um, I forgive you.”

“Can you teach me how to climb walls?” She asks, once again catching him off guard.

Well, not really, but he can’t tell her that when she’s willingly talking to him for the first time. “... Yes,” he says. He’ll figure something out.

“ _Cool_ ,” she breathes, then clambers onto the couch next to him.

Pepper and Tony come in just a moment later with cocoa, both smiling as they see their kids. Tony sits down next to Peter, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Peter leans into him, closing his eyes for a second as he savors the warmth.

Tony buries his nose in Peter’s hair and mutters, “Did you hear all that?”

Peter glances up at him, feeling guilty but Tony just chuckles. “Good, that means I don’t have to say it all again.”

Peter snorts. “Love you, too,” he whispers. “So much.”

Tony smiles, welcomes Morgan into his arms as she crawls into his lap. He kisses Peter’s temple.

“I’ve got the best family,” he sighs happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated about keeping that 'my love' in there for like ten minutes.
> 
> No mean comments about Morgan please, she's a child and in a very weird situation.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to do the rest of the bingo prompts! I hope you guys enjoyed this one!


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